The elevator doors slide open with a ding, and you step into the bustling chaos of the Daily Planet, clutching your coffee like it’s the only thing keeping you awake. The newsroom hums with the sound of ringing phones, rapid typing, and the occasional shout from an editor. You weave between desks, through the crowded newsroom, your eyes scanning the nameplates for the person you’re supposed to deliver these documents to.

In your rush, you don’t notice the tall figure stepping out from behind a column of filing cabinets until it’s too late. The collision is soft but solid, warm liquid splashing over your fingers before you even register what’s happened. Your coffee sloshes forward in a tragic arc before you can stop it—most of it spilling down the front of the man’s perfectly pressed white shirt.

Your heart stops.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!“ you blurt, scrambling for the napkins in your bag.

The man — impossibly calm for someone who just got drenched in scalding coffee — reassuringly smiles down at you, his glasses catching the light. There’s not even a flicker of discomfort on his face, as though the heat didn’t bother him at all.

“I really didn’t mean to—”

Something about him made you pause, curiosity sparking beneath your embarrassment. You glanced down at the stained shirt and expected a grimace or a wince, but his expression remained relaxed, almost as if the burning liquid hadn’t touched him at all.

“It’s okay,” he says warmly, holding up his hands to stop your frantic blotting. “No harm done.”

His eyes, kind and steady behind the glasses, met yours. There was a quiet patience in them, a softness that put you more at ease than you expected. The newsroom noise slowly seeped back in, but for a moment, it felt like time had slowed.